


dark matter

by aosc



Series: I’ve been down the open road [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Omen Trailer 'Verse, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: (IJ) The Insomnia Journal – 22:37BREAKING:Sources claim the RHS-13 Regalia spotted bypassing border control out of Insomnia.(fill for the kink meme prompt: Omen!Noctis meets the Chocobros (http://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3451.html?replyto=3078267))





	dark matter

* * *

 

**The Insomnia Journal — 1 min ago**  
**BREAKING:** Sources claim the RHS-13 Regalia spotted bypassing border control out of Insomnia.

 

*

 

Prompto reads about it before someone attempts to contact him.

 

He’s thumbing down a blog post on his phone, when a pop up from the Insomnia Journal bleeds onto the upper of the bleakly lit screen.

 

**BREAKING** : _Sources close to the Royal Court confirm: Crown Prince is missing. Citadel to enter into lockdown. Follow our reporter LIVE on scene._

 

And at first –

 

Prompto blinks. The pop up slides up again to nestle in his notices, and he thinks that he’s imagining things. He pushes for home, the post on studio photography, written tutorial breaking in side-to-side pictures of the differences in the diffusion of light through a soft box rather than via a reflector screen, fading out into his lock screen. He’s – sure that he saw something totally different. Maybe it wasn’t breaking - it could’ve been, well, any of his dumb game downloads. King’s Knight pop ups are sometimes really stupid and sound _weird_ even if you’re (way too) immersed in its lore, and in one particular quest.

 

This is what he tries to tell himself, finger stroking rapidly over the bottom of the glossy screen – over the bottom half of a picture, a quick, blurry edged snap, of himself and his best friend. In the picture, Noct is half slouched backwards over a park bench, head lolling into Prompto’s shoulder. It’s Iggy who’s the photographer. The light filters through the large, arching crowns of the walk side trees, yellow and midday bright to the eye. Prompto thinks they’ve been location hunting – him dragging Noct along, with his one or often two man regal entourage, to scout a couple of spots he’d thought of using for shooting for his portfolio and to eventual uni applications.

 

Noct had sat back, lazily beating out a few parties on King’s Knight’s online multiplayer function, but did his friend duty and offered his input when prompted. Ignis had probably caught them during down time; Noct does look _out_ of it, and Prompto’s shoulders - bare for his threadbare tank, are slightly flushed with prolonged exposure to warm, direct sunlight.

 

His heart, a heavy, meaty thunk in his chest, has sped up, almost without him noticing. A jolt of adrenaline has taken to curling in his chest, speeding up the roil of blood in his ears. He wants to chastise himself: he’s either blind with sleep, or this is a _mistake_. Even if it says what it says, it’s obviously not – what it says.

 

He swipes his thumb downwards from the top of the screen; over the swaying shadows of the reaching trees that somewhat darken over them, over his own reddish shoulder knobs, over Noct’s fringe, slicing across his face, his arms knotted over his chest as he spills over onto Prompto.

 

(IJ) Insomnia Journal – 3 mins ago  
**BREAKING** : Sources close to the Royal Court confirm: Crown Prince is missing. Citadel to enter into lockdown. Follow our reporter LIVE on scene.

 

Prompto stops _breathing._

 

*

 

Ignis is quite unused to being called directly before His Majesty as it is. King Regis is a calm man, and seldom rattled. He possesses a gravitas that is - admirable. He does not crack, fizzle, bend beneath the weight of ruling, as so many might have.

 

The few times he has been called to an audience with the King and the King alone are but few. Not so intimidating as one might believe; mostly, His Majesty has been sat upon the throne, nodding solemnly along to Ignis’ latest report on Noct’s progressing, or ailings, or general, unchanged status. When the light of twilight slices down through the large, oval windows on the far right of the throne room.

 

Ignis had been roused by his uncle, and unceremoniously told that there is no time to gather one’s wits; you must come at once – His Majesty the King has requested an audience. Ignis had blearily fumbled for his glasses, shoved them askew onto the bridge of his nose, and slipped into a pair of embroidered slippers, courtesy of the Citadel – and hurried after his uncle. His uncle had led him wordlessly through the winding corridors upon a way, which Ignis, with a sinking feeling settling in his belly, had realized was indeed en route to the throne room, and its adjacent private meeting chamber. At this hour, no less.

 

Ignis is adept at recognizing his uncle’s different silences, and this, as they navigated the dwindling corridors of the Citadel – this had been a pensive one; tight lipped and deeply disconcerted.

 

Their arrival was met with naught but silence. None seemed awake, spare for the guards they’d met along the way. The corridor outside of the throne room, otherwise heavily guarded, remained deserted. His uncle had knocked twice, perfunctory, on the inlaid, massive oak door of the meeting chamber, the smaller entrance of the two in the room, and stepped back.

 

The heavy wood swung minutely, and silently, on its hinges. At the entrance, His Majesty’s Shield nodded his consent that they come through.

 

The king – a calm, seldom rattled soul, paces, though weary and limp with his sloping cane as support for his injured leg, at the end of the long table. He is not garbed in his usual attire; but rather in dark trousers, struggled on and with its creases matted, and a cashmere V-neck that only serves to magnify on the thinness of His Majesty’s collar.

 

Stood, on the length of the far wall, are Gladio, along with a slew of the Kingsglaive soldiers. A few of the guard posts that Ignis recognizes only because he has actively interacted with them on the Citadel grounds; the garage’s night guard – Garis, a few staffers from several of the Citadel’s day-to-day offices, and then himself and his uncle. He notices the absence of all members of the Lucian Council. Clarus has rejoined His Majesty, soundlessly taking a spot to the King’s right shoulder.

 

“Your Grace,” says Clarus silently, beckoning for His Majesty’s attention.

 

Regis seems to only then realize that they are, in fact, privy to the eyes of an audience. He slowly ceases to pace, stopping to a halt in the midst of the room. Ignis, at his uncle’s prompting, walks over to join the other Citadel employees along the wall. In the hurry of going from spot A to spot B, he’d all but forgotten about the circumstances of his abrupt wakening, but is at once reminded of it as he sees the state of the others: the Glaives are dressed down, out of garb and weapons bar the bare minimum. Gladio wears sweatpants and only a threadbare t-shirt, and the tangles in his hastily smoothed hair makes Ignis draw the conclusion that also he has been roused very recently. He glances at his wristwatch; half past one.

 

The King clears his throat, a rattling, weak noise. Ignis notices the deep frown in his brow, the lines, etched around his mouth. Shadows, as bruises, beneath his eyes. Regis looks defeated when he looks up at them, training his gaze upon each and every one of them in slow succession.

 

“I am sorry to have roused you all at such an hour,” says the King, “But – what has happened tonight is not something that can have us adjourn tomorrow morning and plan our actions accordingly.”

 

To his left, someone corrects their post. Ignis glances, briefly, over at Gladio; recognizing the sound as a shift in his stance, the sound minutely familiar to him after such prolonged exposure to the man. In the shade of the poorly lit chambers, Noct’s Shield has his jaw knotted and tense, his shoulders rigid and almost quaking with his strained breathing.

 

“After being made aware of the unreported leaving of his quarters, and of the subsequent unauthorized visit to the Citadel garage, in which the RHS-13 Regalia was removed from its spot, as confirmed by the employees stationed at the scene - we’ve reviewed security footage from the cameras mounted on the West Insomnia border. We’ve also conducted a few phone interviews with the patrol currently on site. By doing so, we have been able to confirm that at approximately zero one hundred of this, current, night, Noctis – my son, and the legal heir to this throne, bypassed border control in the RHS-13 Regalia model, unscheduled, and left the Crown City without the authorization to do so. He appeared alone, and unprompted. He has thus far been unresponsive to our attempts at making contact.”

 

Ignis freezes on spot. The chill of the news traverses his spine in jolts, leaving a hollow bodied trail of shock in its wake. He looks around – at his uncle, whose pensive silence takes on a shade of horror. At Gladio, whose shoulders look ready to jar loose, sucking breath after breath between his teeth. On the soldiers, whose backs straighten out until they look lean, deadly, intent, as they crowd against one another. On Regis – who looks chalked out, grey and bereft of several days of proper rest.

 

“The press has been informed. As isolated as we are here, news, and word, from within the capital will still travel the lands quicker than however many able bodies. Apart from that, at this hour, we will be conducting searches within the Citadel, and on the adjacent grounds. A team will be dispatched to the Prince’s private cityside quarters,” Regis pauses, “It is imperative that any information about the Prince’s destination, or intents, be relayed to us immediately, should you have any knowledge about either.”

 

Ignis – doesn’t want to imagine the worst. But it’s almost _impossible_ not to, given the fact that Noct had taken his father’s car and barrelled through border control, out into the wilderness of the country entirely on his own, saying nothing to no one.

 

“Do we know anything?” asks one of the Glaives, “Your Grace – the Prince’s affairs are not typically ours. Is there anything we need to take into account when conducting an investigation? Has there been a spike in any threat level? Have there been any drastic changes to the Prince’s routines? Is there an emotional aspect to consider? He is – young…”

 

“None, as far as we are aware,” replies Clarus, a suddenly tall, steadfast figure who has stepped up closer to the King, as though the rock in the eye of the storm. “The Prince’s Advisor will have to provide us with particular details, but there has been nothing, as far as we have been made aware of.”

 

Ignis physically shakes his head to rid himself of his temporary paralysis, and to see everyone, warriors and civilian employees of the Court alike, turn in expectancy to him. “No,” he says, “Though impossible to say for absolute certain, I have not noticed any changes to Noct’s behaviorisms as of late. He has remained his typical self.”

 

“Your Highness – “ says a member of Public Relations, “Will there be a public statement? We’ve had quite a lot of inquiries already from various press, asking for comments.”

 

“We’d best schedule it,” says Regis, “Should we – “ he cuts himself off, “In the event that – that Noctis should return, be prepared to call it off. But as of now, arrangements should be made.”

 

“Of course, Your Grace,” says the PR employee, “The Office of Public Relations will at once prepare a draft, and make the appropriate calls.”

 

“All affiliated personnel will be questioned, and asked to confirm their schedules and whereabouts for the last 24 hours,” says Clarus, “You will then be aiding the ongoing investigation wherever you are seen most fit to do so.”

 

Over the noise, static and where it’s drawing tighter along with the noose of worry that settles snugly over the base of Ignis’ throat, he chances a look over at Gladio. Gladio – who meets his gaze, whose eyes are hooded with stress, his forehead creased with much the same emotion.

 

For the first time in his life, Ignis prays, in earnest, to the Six – for knowledge, for Noct’s safety, for fortune.

 

*

 

**The Insomnia Journal — 01:43**  
**BREAKING:** Office of the Royal Court confirms: press conference set for 10:00 AM call.

**The Crown Jewel — 01:47**  
Caelum family spokesman: King Regis set to make appearance at 10:00 AM-scheduled press conference.

 

*

 

Prompto sleeps in fits and bouts after he’s attempted Noct’s phone – to no avail. He doesn’t have Ignis’ or Gladio’s phone numbers, and when scouring the net, he comes up empty handed. He attempts to phone the Citadel lines – but all of them are stocked up, blocked by the calls that are seemingly flooding them tight.

 

He pads up to his laptop, and types up the live stream from outside of the ornate Citadel gates, where a hoard of journalists, huddled together for warmth, are ghoulishly illuminated in the glare of the IJ film crew’s camera light, as one reporter stands before it to narrate the scene.

 

It gives him nothing, but he keeps at it, despite the minutes ticking away, the clock hitting one, two, and while nothing changes in the immediate scenery. One reporter chugs a mug of Ebony. Another, in the backdrop of the scene, splits hot caf from a thermos for everyone to share around. Once, a gatekeeper crosses the stretch between the gates and the main building, and the group pitches into a near frency. Prompto feels, after three hours have ticked by, as though he’s there, live and freezing in the Insomnian night, awaiting anxiously any news from the grounds lying mostly desolate within the gates.

 

He keeps his phone within touching distance. Taps the screen until it lights up with his lock screen, of him and Noct, nothing popping up to obscure the picture: his messages empty, his call list as mundane as it were before the news broke.

 

When the clock hits four oh three, he stumbles back into bed. He drags his laptop up to half mast in his lap. That’s how he falls asleep. His phone glows poorly illuminated by a live commentary feed of the very same channel he’s watching the video on. As though either the written commentary, or the broadcasted one, will come through quicker than the other.

 

He jolts awake three and a half hours later by the lazy buzz of his phone vibrating at his side.

 

“‘Lo?” Prompto scrambles to pick up the phone and sit up at the same time. His legs are tangled wet and sweaty in the sheets, and he dislodged the laptop unceremoniously when he wakes. It clashes to the floor with a bang. He winces.

 

“Prompto?”

 

Prompto’s heart stutters. “Iggy?” he breathes, “What the hell’s going on? Where’s Noct? What’s happening over there?”

 

Ignis is initially quiet, though Prompto suspects this isn’t because he’s as usual picture perfectly calm. When his voice comes again over the slightly clicking static of the phone line, it sounds frazzled; _exhausted_. “I suspect you’ve read the news already,” he says, “Unfortunately, there’s not much more that I can tell you. At this stage, we know very little.”

 

He deflates. The rush of his heart receding, spluttering out into nothing. Prompto sinks back into the headboard, his pillow. “Nothing? Nobody knows – anything?”

 

Ignis blows a harsh breath out to needle between his teeth. “Nothing that I can tell you,” he says. “Not over the phone.”

 

“But there’s something? You called for something - right?”

 

“Well…” Ignis blows an abated breath between his teeth. “This _is_ not entirely a courtesy call, I’m afraid. I’m calling because I will need you to come here. As an affiliation of the Prince.”

 

Prompto knows, like the back of his own hand, the fancy streets that taper up from the subway station, and into the neighborhood where Noct’s apartment is. He nods, to himself, into the phone. “Sure,” he says, “Of course, I can do that. Anything. I’ll just – throw on some clothes. Be there in a jiffy.”

 

“No need,” hurries Ignis to say, “I’ve arranged for a car to come fetch you. Nobody who is not an employee of the Citadel will be permitted to enter the grounds until further notice. Bar, of course, those explicitly accredited, for the press conference later.”

 

“Wait – “ says Prompto. He furrows his brow. “Citadel employees – you want me to not go to Noct’s?”

 

“…No,” replies Ignis, slowly, “I’m having you driven to the Citadel itself,” and leaves no room for Prompto to protest, as he continues, “I’m estimating that the car is currently three blocks from your front door, so I suggest you dress quickly. We cannot afford to lose any time. Also, the driver is not an overly patient man.”

 

_Oh man, what the hell do you wear when you’re going to the Citadel_? Is Prompto’s first thought, as Ignis clicks the line dead.

 

He’s been to the Citadel before, it’s not that. Both as a kid at school – Noct had been absent from that particular class trip, he remembers – and as a friend of Noct’s. To train with Gladio, to hang out in Noct’s old room; big, marbled thing with ornate stucco in the corners of the roof and stained glass windows in heavily accented colors through which light bled red, and cyan, and fuchsia. Now – these are no longer places he can go to. _Any longer_ , his mind supplies, but he shakes his head immediately, rids himself of bleak outlooks and doomed what-ifs. They’ve no place in his associative thoughts to his best friend.

 

He rifles through his drawers: underwear goes for a pair of new. He showered last night, so he’s okay. Not – fit for _royalty_ (which, ironic) but okay. He shimmies into a pair of jeans, denim flecked with wear on the knees and at the seams. T-shirt or shirt, is his final dilemma: on the one hand, he’s probably got minus a couple of minutes to decide; if the car was three blocks away, and Iggy wasn’t just screwing with him, then it’s already parked out front. He hasn’t heard anything, but –

 

He settles for a heavy cotton tee that’s the least worn. Looks the most pristine, and chucks it on. His shell jacket will go over.

 

He _is_ sort of glad that his folks aren’t at home, out on some excavation site on some far off rocky Duscae plateau – when he answers the perfunctory knock on his front door.

 

Opening it, reveals a man who is clearly not _just_ a driver. Lean but soldier muscular, garbed in high gloss leather from top to toe, his belt – snug on his hips, holding an _arsenal_ Prompto’s sure only existed in dreams and RPG action titles.

 

The man tilts his head. Curling around his ear is a braid. Hooked in roughly the same place is a subtle, black ear piece. “You Prompto?” the man asks.

 

Prompto nods, mutely. He gulps.

 

The man indicates the car, an Audi R8, which rumbles on low frequency behind him, its ignition still lit, out on the driveway. “Then I’m your driver.”

 

The man, whose name is _classified, sorry_ , has a deep voice, and drives like somebody whose driver’s license should be immediately revoked. The Audi is quiet beneath them, despite the power it’s packing; the muted roar of the V10 when the soldier – driver, whatever he is – eases his foot down over the gas pedal and zigzags out between the early traffic on the highway. They drive along the rising sun, beet yellow, but pale, sleepy, in the wake of dawn. Prompto leans slightly left in his seat, toward the window, watches the scenery blur into sloughs of green, arches of stone inlaid infrastructure, the closer they get to Insomnia’s southern borders.

 

They pass a checkpoint once they turn left, up on a dipping bridge that steers them into the depths of the city. The driver waves a lazy greeting to the officer seated in one of the booths on his side of the car. She waves, perfunctory, once, and pushes a button that makes the indents in the ground go away, and allows them through.

 

Prompto looks backwards as they pass. The gate rises again, before another car drops into the driveway. “Don’t I have to ID?”

 

The driver shrugs. “They don’t ask too many questions when you’re driving this car. Working for the head honcho’s got to come with some perks.”

 

Prompto wants to deter that particular statement; anyone could’ve hijacked the car and driven it straight through, then, but he figures that the driver also _knew_ the officer in the booth. He chews on his bottom lip, and swallows his questions. They’re not what he’s overly concerned with at the moment, anyhow. And, anyone who dares to refer to His Majesty as the _head honcho_ ’s obviously been doing so for a while. They’re _probably_ not doing anything illegal.

 

Prompto’s never come this way by car; if he’s ever ridden anything close to the Citadel, it’s been a tram car, or he’s walked the distance from the closest subway station. Weaving through the streets and circling the large roundabout ways that bring them closer to their target, the Citadel becomes a mass of looming glass and steel, sprouting taller the closer you get. It’s a modern architectural behemoth, in the dewy morning light appearing almost encased in fire. Prompto marvels at it, as they turn an aggressive left right before the intersection that leads straight onto the Citadel from the front, gaze tracking it with the wonder of a kid. The driver offers no comments on where he’s driving, but makes a few close cuts up on tiny streets that seem to tug them away from the Citadel again.

 

The entrance they arrive at is a tiny hole in a nondescript wall that leads them into the roundabout of a parking garage. This tollgate has the driver actually stopping. He waves a leather clad hand in Prompto’s direction. “So, kid, you got that ID you were talking about?”

 

Prompto nods. He digs into his pocket where, as luck would have it, he’s stuffed both his phone and his card case.

 

The driver rolls Prompto’s window down, as he’s the closest to the booth. In it sits a man, dressed in the blacks of a Citadel employee, rather than the bright colors of a traffic officer. He tilts his head as in greeting, but his eyes skitter by Prompto. He arches an eyebrow past him.

 

“You a kiddy chauffeur now, Ulric?” comes his voice, tinny through the amplifier mounted in the glass.

 

The driver – Ulric, which Prompto privately wonders is a first or a last name, snorts. “‘Least I’ve not been demoted to parking duty.”

 

“Yeah, well,” responds the man in the booth, shrugging half a shoulder. “Desperate times. Garis’s been in there all night. Can’t have the garage unmanned.”

 

“All night?” says Ulric, “Man. They sure wanted to get rid of _us_ quickly.”

 

The man in the booth grunts, “Yeah, but _you’re_ not staying here. His Majesty’s gonna chuck you out on the border and shut the gates, till you come back here with his kid in tow.”

 

Ulric offers no comment to that. The man turns to look at Prompto. “You got an ID on you, kid?”

 

Prompto stretches his hand out to present the tiny, glossy card. Its edges are foldable and it’s scratched up by time. He’s probably around fourteen in it, he guesses. Will need to renew it soon.

 

The guard doesn’t bother much with him. He offers his ID back, and unceremoniously pushes the button for the tollgate to rise. He waves them through, says neither here nor there about Prompto being there, or his aged identity card, for that matter.

 

The first familiar face he spots upon the car exiting the loop of the garage’s driveabout, is Ignis, who stands a little astray of the Audi’s path. Ulric is vying for one particular parking spot along the deserted row of many empty parking spots. Prompto thinks he’s seen a lone two other cars, in the garage that when filled, could probably take upwards a hundred. Not many are here – or, not many that come by car, at least.

 

“Prompto,” says Ignis, as soon as both him and Ulric exit the car.

 

Ignis looks harried; face ashen with unrest, eyes slightly pinched behind his glasses. As though he’s gotten even less sleep than Prompto’s measly three and a half hours of unrest, twisting in the sheets, the insipid live coverage a humming static in the background.

 

“Heya, Iggy.” Prompto scratches at the back of his neck, hangs back a little on his heels. “It’s crazy, huh.”

 

Ignis stares at him, unsaying for a moment. “Have you eaten?” he asks.

 

In the background, a soft snort gives way for Ulric gently shouldering his way past Prompto. He gives Ignis a pat on the upper arm in passing. “I’ll leave this to you,” he says.

 

Ignis nods in lieu of replying. “My thanks for driving to fetch him, Nyx.”

 

Nyx Ulric shrugs, good naturedly, on his way. “No need for thanks. I’ll see you around.”

 

Ignis brings him along, into a steep staircase that dwindles upwards, bridging two buildings seamlessly into just one passageway. Prompto’s quiet, taking quiet note of the dark, marbled walls, and of how there are no windows, where they’re going. Of Ignis’ pensive silence; his slightly slumping shoulders, otherwise erect and proud.

 

They arrive at a circular room in which the walls are lined with elevator doors, all closed and quiet. Ignis makes for the closest one, pushes the button and waits until it lights up softly iridescent with an approaching lift.

 

“No visitors today,” says Prompto, needlessly, but just to break the silence that’s threatening to suffocate them both.

 

Ignis doesn’t reply. Prompto notices him glance at his watch, sliding down his wrist. “The hour is early still. The vultures of the free press won’t be let loose in the courtyard just yet. We might just make it across without being noticed.”

 

Prompto frowns. He looks around. “We’re – not in the Citadel?”

 

“No, we’re not. We’re in an adjacent part of the complex to the southwest of the main building. Normally, crossing over isn’t such a hassle. Now, the faintest movement – be it a stray cat or one of the cooks – elicits a near frenzy from the encampment outside.”

 

Prompto recalls the swathe of reporters parked outside of the main gates. “Yeah,” he mutters, “‘S kind of nuts out there. They’ve been there all night.”

 

Ignis offers no comment in response to that. They step into the elevator, and Ignis pushes for the 3rd floor. That they’re currently three floors below ground, when they’d already gone up so much, makes Prompto wonder of the scale of the Citadel’s underground complex. Not just the giant construction above ground.

 

They step off in a glossy, glassed room that has a panoramic view of the Citadel courtyard stretching out before them. To the east are the ornate, shackled gates; to the west, the looming building itself.

 

Ignis twists, to catch Prompto’s gaze. “Don’t panic,” he says, “And don’t look in their direction, if you can help it.”

 

*

 

**The Insomnia Journal** @IJBreaking  
WATCH the press conference at the Citadel LIVE  ijbre.ak/9xVwg  
  
**Crown City Latest** @CCNews  
Regal Heir Up In The Air: Prince Noctis Flees ccne.ws/nV89xtM

 

*

 

**prince’s shield** @amicitias  
was that  #PromptoArgentum, being escorted by the prince’s advisor??? #IJLive

  
**bride 2 be** @nightstar  
is the prince’s bff here bc of the presser later?  #IJLive #FindNoct

 

*

 

**Insomnia Trends** • Change

#IJLive

#FindNoct

#CitadelPressConference

#MissingPrince

#NoctisLucisCaelum

#PromptoArgentum ( _just started trending_ )

 

*

 

The corridors twist and wind, the deeper into the belly of the Citadel they go. Prompto keeps close to Ignis at all times, jacket still hoisted up around his ears to cover as much of his defining features as possible, despite the fact that they’re no longer the subject of the press’ rapt attention, as outside. It doesn’t really do much; the collar reaches, with his shoulders bunched, to his mouth. His hair, slicked back from a lack of sleep and care, is still probably a defining enough factor that it can be spotted scurrying a couple of tenths of yards away from a camera with an advanced enough zoom feature; not to mention the advanced lens and its ability to clear grain from long distance shots.

 

“They saw me,” he says, downcast, to Ignis’ retreating shoulders.

 

“It is of little consequence now. They will speculate, and reach, and paint grand portraits of opaque source material, as it is. Be glad you were not ambushed at your residence. That the only clear shot they have is of the back of your head at a quite considerable distance.”

 

Not that Prompto can imagine that, but - “Ah, yeah – sure. I guess.”

 

Ignis takes an abrupt right, into a hallway that peels away for a crossing: to the right is much the same as from where they’d come: a mouth that gives a ruddy, dim sheen from the chandelier lights bouncing against dark stucco. To their left is a smaller hallway, one that seems to point downwards again. Not for the first time, Prompto feels as though he’s stuck in a maze that only digs deeper into the ground below, rather than opens up into a comprehensible set of openings that, in the end, will lead him on his victorious way.

 

They take the left, and descend; going back for the levels they’ve climbed once already. “Aren’t we – going back?” asks Prompto weakly, as the hall becomes wider, if only to give way to broad shouldered armatures that line the walls, along torches with alight with actual fire, and their twisting, bending shadows the farther they climb down the cool stairs becomes imbued with all the more gravitas, more depth.

 

“Only if you think of ‘going down’ as ‘going back’, as though they are one and the same. The Citadel is vast, and built to withstand both those who wage battles, and those who would rather find a way to eliminate those in power quietly. The tunnels beneath are treacherous even to us familiar with the layout, but quite with reason.”

 

Prompto is quiet for some time after Ignis has finished talking, digesting this. “... Just thinking that this place would benefit a lot from digging a way ‘cross. Would - save a lot of trekking and time.”

 

“Oh, no doubt,” consents Ignis, and turns yet another left.

 

So far, they’ve met exactly two living, breathing human beings: both of them being the guards who ushered them gruffly through the massive oak gates of the Citadel’s front ports. Both of who had chastised Ignis for venturing out at all, and both of who had acknowledged Prompto with a very, very pair of dismissive glances. Like they were really thinking: _he went out there for_ this _scrawny little dude?_

 

The third person they meet goes along with the fourth: two soldiers are postured outside of a deeply sat wall on their far right. Prompto, as they come along, creeping closer upon the unmoving posts, notice the similarities in dressing to Nyx Ulric: the gloss of the black leather, swathes of it stitched into the breast plate, crossing over a thick frock coat, a folded hood at the backs of their necks. One is a woman, and one is a slim, knife tilt jawed man, who glances in their direction as they approach. His eyes are auburn, like Gladio’s, but sit deeper, bore into Prompto in an entirely other way.

 

Ignis stops just before the door the two soldiers are guarding, legs evenly spread between the both of them, his attention on them equally. “Glaives,” he says, which Prompto interprets as some sort of greeting.

 

“The Prince’s Advisor,” says the man. His words slide down Prompto’s spine, uneasy and slippery.

 

“Has the Commander yet arrived?” Ignis tilts his head in the direction of the woman. She has, thus far, kept her gaze straight ahead, forward and disregarding of them both. She looks to Ignis then, her brow furrowed. “Why would – oh.” She glances, briefly, to Prompto. “I see.”

 

Ignis draws a quiet breath. “Is he here?”

 

She nods. “You can go in. Though I suspect you won’t get to stay for long.”

 

The soldier knocks thrice on the door, poise remaining in the opposite direction. She withdraws her gloved hand. From within the depths of the room that, by all accounts, awaits behind the door, the scooting of a chair is heard, the metallic screech of legs pushed across the floor. Heavy footsteps follow.

 

Prompto has only seen this man in the newspapers, ever, and possibly in more memes, and on more fan blogs, than he ever has Noct. His best friend is a main fixture of most Insomnia inhabitants’ social and socio-economical interests, as the prince of the nation: but he’s not really a subject many discuss as prevalently as this man. Noct’s impact on the current political climate is less, somehow, than this man’s.

 

Commander Cor Leonis opens the door, surprisingly gently, for what being this guy is supposed to entail. The Immortal, who figures as the main character in dozens of cheesy wartime romance shows and marathon movies. Who has grazed every Crown City news outlet’s glossy cover. Whose exploits have been adapted into screenplays, and books, and psychology studies. Who appears, bloodied and battered and resentfully powerful, in old war memorials they were forced to study in Lucian History class. And, as a bonus, is the namesake of a changecc.lu-petition, which has as its end goal to have a street named after him.

 

The very same person looks at Ignis, greeting him gruffly as an old acquaintance would. “Scientia.”

 

“Commander,” replies Ignis.

 

For a moment, Prompto doesn’t understand why they’re at all here. In this mottled, dark stretch of underground corridor that’s been obviously once upon a time been a very real castle dungeon. Iggy’d said, quite clearly, that no time was to be wasted – so why –

 

Commander Leonis looks down, from his looming statue, at Prompto. “If you’ll shut the door behind him, Ignis.”

 

Prompto is not immediately addressed as his own person. Ignis ushers him in through the scratched, worn door, a steady, warm palm in the fit of his lower back that Prompto hopes the other man intends as a means for voiceless reassurance. Once he’s past the sill, the door is clicked shut. Commander Leonis says nothing all the while. He waits, having taken noiseless, loping steps backwards until he’s stood on the far side of the room.

 

In the room, torches line the walls. These walls which are not marbled, webbed and smooth to the touch. The stalagmite is chunky and rough, old and probably lines the remainder of the Citadel as its foundation. In the midst of the rectangular space is a steel table, molded into the slab of concrete that serves as a floor. Its pinny legs are corroded through.

 

Prompto reluctantly, though understanding needles at him quickly – he gets what he’s supposed to do next – moves towards the lone chair on his side of the table. Not until he’s taken the seat, and held himself drawn up tight, gaze stubbornly stuck to a spot of discoloration on the table top, does the Commander speak.

 

“First off, I’d like to get any obstructing questions out of the way,” says Leonis, “We’re not keeping you here. You are, at any time, free to leave. This is to be seen as a routine debriefing; all in affiliation to the Prince are treated equally, regardless of social and hierarchical stance, both within the Caelum household, and outside of it. If there is anything else, that you need to get out of your system, speak now, or don’t.”

 

Prompto’s mind hiccups over the _everyone is treated the same-_ sentiment, and he wonders if Ignis was shoved through the door without an explanation to aid him; if Gladio was ordered to sit down before the Commander, and told he wasn’t being held, it’s just routine, we just need you to do this. But the same part of his mind reels back, and he sees flashes: Noct just two days prior, the wind whipping his carefully aligned fringe askew; the undone tie, messy at the regal column of his throat. The wry tilt of his mouth at scrolling through Prompto’s Twitter feed.

 

“Nothing else, Sir,” he says quietly.

 

Commander Leonis inclines his head. “Good. Then we’d best get this over with – “ he moves to stand right before Prompto, so that he won’t have to look sideways to see the Commander slouch, but rather look up and see the imposing ropes of muscles on his arms cross over his chest, extending above Prompto in his line of sight, “State your full name, please.”

 

“Um – “ Prompto says, but quickly supplies, “Prompto Argentum, Sir,” when Commander Leonis looks sharply up at him.

 

“Your date of birth.”

 

“October 20th.”

 

“Your current residence.”

 

“Yun Drive 8A. Southern Insomnia, Cavaugh region.”

 

“Family?”

 

“Just my parents.”

 

“No siblings?”

 

Prompto’s thoughts jeer to a halt. He swallows. “I – no. I was – am, adopted, Sir. I wouldn’t know.”

 

Commander Leonis frowns, but doesn’t push the issue. Somewhere in Prompto, something is rattling loose, a pin and a pair of screws, with the weak picking of his heart. He wonders – he shouldn’t, he knows, but that doesn’t stop his thoughts from wandering.

 

Commander Leonis starts up again, before Prompto’s gathered himself up again. “Prompto,” he says, “Can you account for your whereabouts for the last 24 hours?”

 

In some corner of his mind, a small, usually insignificant voice relays to him, _this is a test_. But he reminds himself, pushing the needling of the voice firmly out, that this is not a late night TV hostage drama on a PPV channel. This is a real life situation, this is happening to him, to all of the people around him - to _Noct_. And he’s just got an incredibly hard time wrapping his head around it. This has got nothing to do with _him_ – not really. He’s just – a dude Noct knows. The rational part of his brain’s already figured out that they couldn’t give less of a damn about who he is, or what he’s been doing all his life.

 

Prompto purses his lips, “Yeah, I – um. I was at work. I work extra hours at CC Photo on the corner of 58th – to take the morning shift. I get in at seven-ish, to check online orders and stuff. We open at ten, and then I work till two. After – we,” he pauses, and swallows around the words, “me and Noct, that is – we have training with Gladio. Cancelled, though, didn’t think of it much. So I hung around work. Clocked out at five, and took the long way ‘round the plaza home. Then I – I was at home, all night,” he glances up at the Commander, “my parents aren’t home. They’re in Duscae. For some excavation, so there’s no one who can confirm that.”

 

The Commander peers at him, though he looks non-committal. “You were picked up at the address you have confirmed as your current residential one at approximately seven hundred hours of today. At that point, the soldier who came to retrieve you had secured the perimeter and assured his command chain that nothing unusual was to be expected. As confirmed, no other residents were found on the scene,” the Commander centers in on him once more, “Have you attempted to contact the Prince?”

 

Prompto nods. “Yeah, I – a few times. Last night. And this morning, before I pretty much realized it wouldn’t go to anything else than voicemail.”

 

“Not since?”

 

Prompto shakes his head. “Got brought straight here from the car. And – from my bed and into the car, to be honest. I don’t know when the time would’ve been right for that…”

 

“And you know nothing of why the prince has – ?” The final delivery of Commander Leonis’ sentence is almost delicate, tapering off into an unspoken question. As though he’s undecided of how to phrase the intent in it. As though, Prompto realizes, they’ve no idea of whether Noct went by himself, or whether he was forced to. As though they’ve got no clue, not really.

 

He breathes, attempts to steel himself, and looks up, to meet the Commander’s gaze. “Sir – Commander,” he says, “ _Please_ believe me when I say that if I knew something about Noct’s plans, I would’ve gone after him myself. Or been there, at the time. I wouldn’t be sitting here, talking to you about what I did and didn’t do last night.”

 

For the longest time, since Prompto’d first been pushed into the room and before him, Commander Leonis stands scrupulously silent, regarding him from the short distance that separates them.

 

“Very well. We’re done here,” he says, after another stretch of quiet, threatening to engulf Prompto, chew him up and spit him out incomprehensible.

 

“We’re – done?” echoes Prompto. After the long, shriveling cold-walk down here, breaching the depths of a dungeon, for a brief, intimidating chat with the Commander of the Crownsguard himself about whether Prompto is implicated in Noct’s whole disappearance, all it takes for them to release him is – this? He would like to think that, in an idealized world, these _are_ routine questions for everyone to go through in one of these situations. But then he also thinks that then there’s a world in which this situation is actually real – is a realized possibility that the Commander, along with the slew of soldiers they’d spotted on the way here, are prepared for, are trained for. And that puts a jarring halt to his thoughts.

 

Prompto shivers. He would like to wrap himself up in something ( _the slant of the sun across the esplanade on the eastern borders of the city, warm and ripe orange even through the light spotted lens of his 50mm, training in on Noct, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders slumped, ahead of Prompto_ ), but knows that it’s a futile feeling. “Isn’t there – anything else?”

 

Now that he’s here – he tries to reconstruct the past week. Tries to figure something out in the brief flashes that come back to him, Noct’s barely tilted smile swimming and not particularly lucid in his mind. Was it something he’d said? Something he’d done? Or hadn’t done? The cancelled training session, sure, is telling now, in hindsight. But not at the time. He tries to recall how he’d been told – Noct had texted him.

 

Prompto reaches for his pocket, stricken by the thought, paralyzed by the possibility that he could’ve analyzed the text and perhaps been able to foresee the entire chain of future events. “My phone,” he explains, as though the sudden reach for the unwatched space beneath the table interprets as threatening.

 

Commander Leonis simply waits, inscrutable.

 

There is no signal down, deep beneath the Citadel. Prompto has two forlorn push notices from Instagram; two photography accounts that follow about a thousand more than they’ve managed to accumulate as their own followers, who have liked his most recent picture posted. And a few dozen news outlet notices, and a reminder to check the tags he’s following on Twitter. But nothing noteworthy. No calls. No texts.

 

He thumbs his password, and pushes for his messages. At the very top of the list is his and Noct’s conversation. Prompto hasn’t thought about looking at it until now. Has – called him, texted once, his is the latest in the back and forth scroll of message bubbles – but after last night, he’s forgotten all about it.

 

He scrolls slowly, past his final, painful “noct, if you’re there, please just let me know you’re okay”, past the one before that – “the news r saying ur not in insomnia wtf??”, and the one before that – “havent seen u online on king’s knight since last night r u okay should i send iggy an SOS text are u dead” – to what he’s looking for; Noct’s bubble, on the opposite side of the screen:

 

Noct  
  
  
**Wednesday** 17:37 PM  
got some stuff that came up  
gladio’s gonna be a pain  
but can’t make training today ttyl tho?

 

Prompto stares at the screen, stomach clenching oddly – something in there suddenly stricken with the inability to remain settled. It flops around, reaching for his lungs, tightening, receding, down into his stomach. Up and down, clenching and unclenching until Prompto thinks he can feel nausea scrape at the back of his throat.

 

He slides his phone across the table, righting it until Commander Leonis can read the exchange. His expression doesn’t change. It remains closed off, professionally stoic.

 

A sharp knock on the door rouses the Commander’s attention. It makes Prompto almost jump, jackrabbit heart traitorously high in his throat.

 

The door opens without any prompting. In its mouth steps the female soldier from earlier. “Commander,” she says, standing at attention, looking past the both of them. “Apologies for the interruption.”

 

“At ease, ‘Glaive,” says Commander Leonis.

 

The soldier relaxes minutely. She glances at Prompto. “Sir. It’s almost ten. They’re showing the press corps inside right now. I understand you’re supposed to be there – when it begins.”

 

Commander Leonis glances to Prompto, again. “I guess we _are_ done here,” he says. He starts away from the table.

 

Ignis is waiting for them outside, poised against the far wall, face inscrutable and passé. He looks up, once they emerge from the room.

 

The Kingsglaive soldier who leads them steps quickly to the side, where the other one is remaining stationed. Commander Leonis says nothing of it. “Ignis,” he says, instead, turning to Ignis, “You’re permitted to take him home once things start to calm down.”

 

Ignis nods. “Understood, Sir,” he gives the Commander a brief salute.

 

“‘Glaives,” says Commander Leonis. The soldiers follow along, stepping past Prompto and Ignis without so much as looking at them. Prompto watches them go, dark attires blending in the murky light until they’ve disappeared up the stairs, their footsteps receding.

 

“That’s it?” says Prompto. He turns to Ignis. “I’m just - gonna go home? To wait?”

 

Ignis sighs. Some of the tension bleeds out of his posture. “We’re not much better off, despite our residing within the Citadel. They’ll perhaps use Gladio in the search party, but most of us will have to remain within the city, to do naught but wait.”

 

“ _Still_ ,” Prompto argues. He draws a shaky breath. “It’s not - fair, for us to just sit around. Is it?”

 

“Prompto,” says Ignis, mildly reprimanding. He turns to look at Prompto properly. “What would you have yourself do, that could somehow better the odds of Noct returning home?”

 

He doesn’t know - that’s what. He _doesn’t know_. Prompto’s got no idea, but he knows that any idea will be better than just sitting back on his heels, going to work, biding his time on social media, waiting for more tweets about Noct’s whereabouts to start surfacing. It’s not fair to his buddy, or to themselves. He eventually slumps against the wall. “I don’t know,” he mutters.

 

Ignis is quiet for a few beats, a little reprieving. No sound is made, except for the two of them breathing; Ignis’ carefully pressed suit creaking. Prompto’s thumbs scratching on the insides of his jeans pockets. The flush of the live torches crackling with fire.

 

“If you’d like, we’ll make our way upwards, watch the press conference. Either way, we cannot leave the grounds before it’s done with, and if anything is bound to be revealed that we’ve not yet been made privy to, there is certainly no better outlet than there.” Ignis inclines his head upwards.

 

Prompto reluctantly nods. “I - guess,” he says, “Yeah. Sure. Let’s watch it.”

 

*

 

They take their spots just behind the makeshift wallpaper that’s been raised behind the podium upon which Commander Leonis, King Regis, Clarus, as well as the bulging, towering man Ignis had identified for Prompto as Titus Drautos, the Captain of the Kingsglaive, sit. The press conference has already started, the clock reading fifteen past ten. They’re slanted just behind the happenings, but Prompto is still able to see the podium, as well as the first three rows of journalists seated before it.

 

“Commander,” says one reporter, the recording device he shoves in front of himself emblazoned with the IJ logo, “Is the Crown considering the possibility that the prince did not act by his own accord? That there could, in fact, be another party involved in this?”

 

Prompto shivers again; mostly he chalks it up to not having slept consequently for more than two hours, but also because the thought terrifies him. What if someone – threatened him? Or the King – his father? Or Ignis, or – even Gladio, despite the fact that the big man could certainly handle any and all threats. Prompto knows Noct – knows that beneath the exterior of withdrawn nonchalance he _fiercely_ cares; would go to the ends of the earth, do anything, for those close to him.

 

“It is too early to speculate in the circumstances regarding the Prince’s disappearance,” says Commander Leonis. Beside him, King Regis sits in silence, and to his credit – possibly having been the King of a nation at war for thirty odd years helps in that regards, he appears solid, unyielding. “And it is, above else, a moot point. It matters little to speculate when said speculations are entirely unfounded, based upon nothing. The investigation is ongoing. Information will be released to the public as it is uncovered.”

 

“…Thank you for your answer, Commander.” The IJ reporter sits back down, either content with the answer, or with just being alive, after that. Prompto knows the feeling – just sitting before Cor Leonis had made him wish he’d sort of never been born. Or, at least, not in a position to having been doubted enough to sit down with him as a target in an unofficial _interrogation_.

 

“Commander,” asks another journalist, from the bottom corner of the restricted line just beneath the podium, “Will the Crown be dispatching a search team beyond the Insomnian border?”

 

“To maintain the integrity of the investigation, the Commander will decline to discuss any and all particular details pertaining to the case,” says the lady from PR, who spearheads the press conference on the Crown’s behalf. She nods towards the midst of the group. “Yes?”

 

“Will we receive any details at all?” sounds an exasperated voice. It draws a few uneasy chuckles from scattered points. “Every question in here’s just rebuked. _Is_ there even a case?”

 

“With that tone, no,” replies the woman coolly, her voice gradually dropping until she’s almost sharp, “But, by all means, if the DI would like to report on a lighter matter, there is an escort waiting at the door to follow you to your van. There is a Cleigne caravan downtown by the Plaza Cristal that could certainly use the extra publicity.”

 

The sullen reporter of the Daily Insomnia paper abruptly quietens, as does most of the remainder of the room.

 

The PR lady swiftly shifts her attention from the matter. She turns, and points, silently, to somewhere in the midst of the journalistic crowd for the next accredited to stand. As she does, another journalist hastily gets up, to rise above the others, before the podium. Prompto recognizes him from CCN broadcasts.

 

“This question will be for His Majesty, if that’s allowed,” says the reporter.

 

The official at the end of the podium nods her consent. “Keep it civilized, and within bounds.”

 

“Of course,” consents the reporter. He turns to face King Regis properly, addressing him head on. “Your Grace – I understand that this must be hard, but – how does it _feel_? How did you react, when the news reached you?”

 

At Prompto’s side, Ignis’ lip curls in ill tempered distaste. “The nerve – “

 

“It is, of course, difficult,” replies King Regis without much hesitance, after only a moment of silence that appears – almost contemplative, rather than offended. “I do not speak as a monarch, but as a father, like any other, when I say this – Noctis is my blood, my child. It would devastate me, to no end, should something untoward happen to him. That is why I pray that he be returned to us, safe and sound as he were.”

 

The crowd breaks out in murmurs and soft scratches, from those few who use a pad and pencil to jot down the gist of the commentary. “And, do you believe, that he may return soon?”

 

King Regis briefly shutters his eyes, an overcast of eyelashes that Prompto recognizes from Noct. “That is what I will be praying for.”

 

The CCN reporter appears undecided as whether to continue, but sits down after a beat. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

“May we have the next question – “

 

“It cannot possibly be safe for His Highness, out in the wilderness – “ comments someone in the crowd, cutting in, someone who Prompto misses to see the face of. “How will he fend for himself?”

 

“We are all citizens of Lucis as a whole,” replies the King swiftly, “While the Wall certainly is a safeguard for the Crown City, it is not there to separate us from the remainder of our country. I fear not for what the countryside may do to my son. He is a capable man, fostered to take the throne when the time comes, and to rule as a just king. To be able to do that – to command the vast expanse of our entire nation, one must also know it intimately. All of it. That, is why I choose not to fear for him.”

 

Whilst most of the crowd hums in either thoughtful consent, or murmur in appraise, Prompto, and a silent, though clearly approving Ignis, included – the reporter with the original interruption refuses to be abated. “If His Majesty does not fear the outside, then – another nation? Is this to do with the – alleged – refusal of the Empire’s rumored peace terms?”

 

This rouses the room. The live video, film camera statuated with its operator at the very back of the room, emits a faint whirring noise as it probably centers on the podium – zooms in to get a good look at the King and the Commander as they prepare to reply to the line of questioning.

 

“The Crown declines to partake in the speculations of the press,” cuts the PR woman at the side of the podium in. She speaks in the others’ stead, as several reporters who’d previously been mic-less are now fumbling with their pocketfuls of recording equipment. “Nothing can and nothing will be said in response. The question is clearly based on naught but hearsay. Now, if there will be no questions of relevance from the attending, we will be wrapping this up.”

 

An outburst of _King Regis_ ’s, and _Commander Leonis_ ’s, and, _Your Grace, a comment on_ – floods the small room immediately, as though a rabid pack of Voretooths had been whisked out of a cave of choosing, rage ignited by unfortunate bypassers. A few stationary guards leave their spots at the walls, and begin preparing to move people out.

 

Ignis sighs, and pushes his glasses up to situate further on the bridge of his nose.

 

“Well, then,” he says, “If we also take our leave – “

 

“I’d like a comment from His Grace on the allegations made regarding the Oracle, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret’s – hand in marriage being included as a term of the Empire’s peace treaty. The peace treaty that the Council is said to have turned down. Is this as good as turning the annexed land of Tenebrae, and its support for the Crown, away?”

 

The assailant is from The Cavaugh Bulletin, t-shirt depicting, in a thick font, where he comes from. It’s a known anti-monarchy paper, with its head quarters on the outskirts of Insomnia, very close to the ruins of the old Wall.

 

The live camera, in the background, whirrs when it once again zooms in, out, focusing on where the Crown has begun to rise to leave the room.

 

The PR lady glares. It’s not outright hostile, but it’s a close call. “I won’t say it again,” she says, “The Crown will decline to partake in the speculations of the press. His Majesty will offer no comment, and neither will anyone else.”

 

“Isn’t it also turning the Oracle herself away? In the sweet, government-narrated fairytale of the Oracle and the King of Light growing up as close friends together, surely this would seem like a slap to the face?”

 

The man remains, stubbornly holding his mic before himself.

 

The PR representative’s lip curls, “I will remind all who are gathered here today that this is not a societal debate. Furthermore, it’s certainly an almost fantastical extension between the matter at hand, and the alleged one which you are now speaking of.”

 

“I don’t see the Crown rejecting any of the claims I’ve made?”

 

Ignis scowls. “They just won’t quit, will they,” he says.

 

Prompto cranes his head, to see better when the guards approach the reporter. “Vultures will be vultures,” he says, “‘S not like they’ll be on their best behavior just ‘cause something like this’s happened.”

 

“No doubt,” says Ignis, “You’re right about that.”

 

“The Crown Prince has been spotted!”

 

Prompto – freezes. As does most of the room.

 

Upon the podium, King Regis has sharply turned towards the crowd again, his injury all but forgotten. At his back, the King’s Shield has stepped up to his back. Commander Leonis is pitched forward, his palms splayed on the tabletop. He is very still.

 

The woman who’d made the exclamation waves her phone before her. “It’s – it’s all over social media,” she says, and adds a hasty “Sirs,” when she realizes that the Crown’s representatives have trained in on her. “It’s a video. Let me see if I can play it – “

 

*

 

The Coernix station is a remote one in Leide; people mostly pass it by en route to Hammerhead, rather than pull over for the leaning building, its tell tale neon sign is pale with dust and burnt out electrical joints. The few people who do stop by are 90% of the time daemon hunters from far out on the plains. They speak with a worse lilt than you do, sometimes a little hard to grasp at.

 

This one, only the second customer of today, is _not_ a hunter.

 

You see the sleek, black thing that passes for his car, pull up outside in a rumble of engine power and a draft of sand from the desert slopes surrounding the station. It’s not something you’ve ever seen; it looks torn straight out of one of those futuristic sci-fi TV-shows that you can sometimes catch when your frequency range patches into the Crown City networks. Long, with concave doors that mold into its shape. It hasn’t even got a _roof_ , and the noise it makes is oily smooth from behind the station’s sliding doors.

 

He steps out of the car, dressed in shiny, spotless clothes that look picked right out of one of those Insomnia fashion ads that sometimes make it in the local papers. You don’t recognize him, at first, but something tells you that – that you should. He’s young; can’t be more than 25 at most. The fringe that sluices over his face obscures most tell tale signs of aging, and makes him look a bland between adolescence and adult.

 

Of course, you gauge this from _before_ he walks through the doors.

 

Perhaps he’d slipped by anyone else unnoticed, but your ma and pa are fervent supporters of the Crown, so you know, alright. The second he steps through the doors, you connect the dots between the futuristic-looking vehicle, the dark hair, the chance to stop at something remote in the middle of a patch of wasteland –

 

You clear your throat. The Prince of Lucis remains, thick soled boots clunking against the floor, not a figment of your imagination.

 

*

 

**The Insomnia Journal** @IJBreaking  
**BREAKING** Prince caught on tape fleeing Imperial forces ijbre.ak/7qBMrl

**Crown City Latest** @CCNews  
WATCH: Shocking footage of Crown Prince escaping open Imperial fire ccne.ws/xTY87yvL

 

*

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first part of four planned. or, semi-planned. (but the parts are decided.) 
> 
> as you've by now gauged, it will sort of follow the omen trailer as canonically as can be done. some parts will be rearranged and rewritten since omen is really about regis having a bunch of premonitions banded together into a vision. which obviously isn't the playing field here. narration will vary, switch between noct and the bros. 
> 
> i'll try to keep updates at least bi-weekly, but this is only roughly planned out, and next to nothing is now pre-written. so bear with me!


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